Blue Towels and White Roses
by sceptic.idiot
Summary: Sometimes forgiving yourself is just as important as earning it from others. Rose deathfic from Hermione's perspective. Warnings inside.


**Title: **Blue Towels and White Roses

**Pairings: **Hermione/Ron and implied Harry/Ginny

**Summary: **Sometimes forgiving yourself is just as important as earning it from others. Rose deathfic from Hermione's perspective.

**Warnings: **Character death, very slight Ron/Hermione smut, angst, despair.

**A/N: **I wrote this short one-shot as a request from a person on a page I admin on Facebook, who wanted me to write a Rose deathfic with Hermione's perspective. This is the first completed fic I've written that is NOT a Drarry and I honestly don't know how good it's turned out because I've never done anything like this before - I ship only Drarry and I'm in my comfort zone when I'm writing about them. However, hopefully you guys still like what I've managed to come up with. I've played with my writing style again, as I always do, and this one is written in second-person with present tense. All the narrative is linear EXCEPT for the very first section, which is two months into the future. Then it skips back to the past for the next section (indicated by italics), and then continues in the present, following the proper passage of time. Read, enjoy and do review, please!

**Important Note: **This is a mix of canon and non-canon. The non-canon stuff is as follows - Harry and Ginny are together but NOT married, and they haven't had James or Albus or Lily yet, as a consequence. Secondly, the age difference between Rose and Hugo here is 7 years, and not 2 years as is indicated in the books. All other background stuff is mostly canon, apart from the plot, of course.

.oOo.

You stand there, dumbly, saying nothing, the emptiness of the house pressing down upon you, unable to _feel_. Because how can you when your world is falling apart? When everything you've ever known and thought to be true, safe, happy, _constant _is shattering before you? And then the tears are coming, sure and fast, as you stare at yourself in the mirror, pale and worn and messy and shabby and looking so very _old, _like you've aged a million years in the last two months. And you probably have.

"No," you whisper thickly through the tears. "No."

But it doesn't make anything right.

.oOo.

_You're numb in disbelief, because no, this can't be happening, you only saw her this morning when you left her at the gate of her Muggle primary school, her bag slung across and her eyes bright with enthusiasm, as always. You kissed her cheeks, flushed because of the cold Manchester wind that you both braved when you walked her to school, and told her to be a good girl and that you'd be here to pick her up when school was done for the day._

_And no, now you know it isn't true, Harry and Ginny are just mistaken, she isn't... She hasn't... It's just past recess, she can't have been anywhere apart from in school, it's simply not possible. They've got it all wrong. They Flooed to the Ministry for nothing, they really did._

_But then Ginny's trying to explain it and she's saying something the monkey bars and falling and cracking her skull but you're still resolutely shaking your head because this is utter rubbish, Rose __never__ went on the monkey bars, she's __told__ you so, said she'd always been afraid, so this isn't possible._

_But when you switch your gaze to Harry, looking for some confirmation that Ginny's finally lost her marbles, he looks just as shell-shocked as you feel, sadness in his eyes which are darting about as if trying to escape from his head. And then you look at his hands. And oh Merlin, he's wringing his hands, Harry __never__ wrings his hands and oh gods, it's true..._

_And then you're falling and the tears come, shuddering and gasping until you can't breathe and there's only blackness as you shut out the world._

.oOo.

Your husband doesn't talk to you much anymore. You assume that's just how it is, there's nothing left to say. It's all done. All the tears and the denial and the rows have been ripped from each of your chests. Words have been flung back and forth like hexes. All the comfort that could be given has been, all the despair that had to be expressed has and there are simply no words left now.

He goes to work in the mornings, with a murmured farewell as he kisses the top of your head listlessly. You know it's more of a force of habit these days rather than there being any real affection behind it. Not enough to let it show, at the least. You don't really care. You pretty much feel the same.

You bide the time until he gets back. The first few weeks, you took to cleaning each surface and spot and shelf of the house obsessively, taking comfort in the physical labour so that you didn't have to think or feel anything. Just satisfaction in the way everything gleamed when you were done, the sweat cooling rapidly on your neck, your hair more bushy than usual. The feelings rapidly faded, though, and after the first week there wasn't anything left to clean that you hadn't already done.

Apart from her room.

You've never gone in there, not once, since that morning that Ginny and Harry delivered the news that would change your life forever. You couldn't bring yourself too. Neither could Ron.

Now you just sit numbly in the house, watching the telly or making cup after cup of tea, or sometimes if you really feel like it, coffee. You stare at the pictures on the walls and tables, not really seeing them but feeling their presence nonetheless.

So happy, you think. We were so happy.

You want to go back to work, you really do, but you can't seem to find the courage to go through with it. Every day that you wake up and decide that yes, this is it, you falter and then you can't do it anymore. So you don't. You already had short hours as it was, after she was born, and you admit you played the I'm-famous-and-I-fought-with-Harry-Potter-in-the-War card to retain your job but on your terms, even though you're a bit ashamed to admit it. But you couldn't stand being away from your daughter for too long and you also liked your job as a Magical Law Enforcement officer at the Ministry too much to let it go.

Now you wish you had. Maybe then you could've done something, _anything, _to stop what had happened.

Ron comes back in the evenings, but there's no relief, only the added silence of another person's unspoken thoughts. You eat dinner quietly, making the occasional small talk about his day (because yours has nothing in it anymore) and then make your way to your room. You pull the bedcovers down and slip inside, and both of you turn away from each other almost immediately.

It's a long time before either of you fall asleep.

.oOo.

Things have just been deteriorating the past month and a half. Ron hardly looks at you anymore, so it comes as no shock when he springs something on you during dinner one night.

"I want a divorce," he says.

You knew this was coming for a while. You nod vacantly.

"I know," you say. "Finish your dinner."

No more words are spoken for the duration of the night by silent mutual consent. You fall into your usual bedtime routine.

That night you can't stop the tears from silently slipping down your face as you curl up slowly under the blankets.

.oOo.

Ron moves out in a couple of days to stay with Harry and Ginny in their apartment in Liverpool. You stay back in the big, empty house. It's so desolate and you wonder how life got like this. Only two months back you were laughing and playing with her, kisses and hugs and cuddles and toys; your husband grinning and showering the two of your with gifts, being the quintessential dorky dad whom everyone still loved.

It's a world apart from where you are now.

They tried to talk you out of it, Harry tackling Ron and Ginny going after you. They said that you shouldn't forget how much you loved each other, how much you still do. That's where they were wrong. You both still love each other, that's for sure, but it's hard to remember just _why _anymore. You don't really _feel _the love, even though you know it's there, so how can you continue to live like that?

Rose's birth merely strengthened a bond that was inconceivably strong before as well. But now that she's gone, you feel like she took the bond with her instead of merely weakening it. It's disappeared, and there's no use pretending it hadn't. You think Ginny finally got your point after the 17th time you'd made it.

There's nothing left to it anymore. Just a couple more papers to sign at the Ministry. And you feel terrible about yourself because suddenly you couldn't care less about whether you stayed together or not.

But that night when you stand in front of the mirror, thinking about everything that's changed; the tears still come.

.oOo.

The third week of being alone in the house, you break. You have an appointment at the Ministry to sign the last paper the next day, and you didn't feel anything about it. Until now.

Your daughter's gone and she's never coming back, and now your husband's leaving you too and you have no one to lean on anymore.

The gasps and shudders come without warning, wracking your body. You slip to the ground in the middle of your kitchen, your evening tea lying half-brewed on the counter, arms around your knees.

Everything that you refused to accept, all the feelings that you fought every single step of the way come back and now it's all you can do not to scream.

And gods, it aches, it aches so much because she was your only daughter, the one who brought sunlight with her into every room she walked into. Even when you'd do something wrong; like burn the toast in the morning or make her late for school because you couldn't remember where you kept her coat last night, she'd smile at you with those big blue eyes which were so like her father's and in one moment, you knew you'd be okay because she didn't mind and she still loved you.

So many dreams for the future, such a bright girl, she had so much in store for herself. But now you'd never know the joys of her success because she was gone, gone so young and she left a wrecked family behind.

You stumble up blindly and before you know what you're doing, you're making your way up the stairs and to her room, desperate to see it again, to know it wasn't a dream and that she had once lived here and played here and laughed here. You fumble with the doorjamb, filthy with dust because of disuse and trip into the room.

And oh dear Merlin, the memories come unrestrainedly now, flipping and flipping through your mind, snapshots and stills that you didn't even know you had stored away until it's just one big blur, a whirlwind roaring so loudly in your ears that you scream out loud for the first time in months, the sound soothing you in some savage way. The loss of control is empowering but so desperately aching at the same time and it's horrible.

To know that you'll never get to read her another story about dragons at bedtime or tuck her in when she's finally asleep, or to pack her lunchbox and take her to school with her skipping the entire short distance. To know that she'll never go to Hogwarts and learn real magic or get a wand or an owl or read all those books in the library or be sorted or meet new friends and dormmates and study with them in the common room or attempt to play Quidditch and know whether she's as good as her father or as bad as you or take too many lessons and tell you all about it or give her OWLs and NEWTs and know what it is to really live or...

Then it's too much for you to take and you crumble, sobbing, aching and wishing so desperately for her to just come back, because you're lost without her and suddenly your life has no meaning. And you wonder how you'll last through the night.

.oOo.

You don't hear the rapid knocking on the front door. You've long since emptied her cupboards and shelves; her clothes and toys and books scattered and lying around you on the ground as you rock yourself gently, your hands around your drawn up knees. It's not until the doorbell rings frantically that you snap your head up and realize the sun has already gone down and it's started to rain, grey and murky outside the dust-caked window.

You stand up numbly and make your way downstairs, the doorbell still being abused by the finger of whichever godforsaken person is trying to visit you at this time. You wonder who it could be but don't really care because you just want them gone.

You open the door and the words to tell whoever it is to bugger off die on your lips as you see your husband standing in the dark rain, wet and soaking and looking like a desperate man.

"Hermione," he croaks before you can even react, "I'm so sorry, I don't want this, I don't. We never should've done this because it's just making it worse and please..."

But you don't allow him to finish because the next thing you know you've flung yourself at him and your lips are on his, kissing furiously. You're getting completely drenched in the cold rain and his soaked state isn't making things better but you couldn't care less because you just need to feel him right now, feel his skin on yours and let him make it all go away.

He reponds like a man finally getting a drink of water after an eternity of thirst and then you're stumbling back into the house, the door slammed behind you as you grapple for purchase on his slick shoulders. You make your way to the sofa in the sitting room and then cold, damp clothes are being flung out of the way, until you lie on top of him on the plush velvet, hardly covered. Cold bodies rapidly get warmed from moving against each other and your fingers are running all across his body, trying to rememorize every plane and every scar, every part of him, and he's yours now, yours to take and keep and he'll make it better.

Then he's inside you and gods, it feels so good, and this is exactly what you want because it's fast and furious and driven and it's all you can think about. And this way you don't have to think about anything else, about the ache in your chest because he's soothing it in a way you never thought was possible. You move desperately against each other, still firmly attached at the mouth and then you're both coming, you spasming and convulsing around him while he empties into you.

And afterwards, when you lie wrapped up against him in the same place in a blanket that he's conjured, you hear him whisper a small proclamation of love into your ear before you fall into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

.oOo.

"I'm pregnant." You say to Ron, and his eyes widen.

You didn't believe it when you first tested yourself, but three charms and five Muggle pregnancy tests don't lie and neither do the symptoms that keep cropping up which are so similar to the ones you had before Rose. It's been two months since you decided not to get divorced and things have not been smooth, not in the least, but they're better in small, imperceptible ways. At least now you're back at work, and you're talking about matters with him instead of bottling up in a fit of numbness.

And there isn't one night you don't wake up, shuddering, missing Rose so much it hurts, but now he's there to hold you and comfort you, and you get through it together.

"Bloody hell." Is all he says, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Thank you, Ronald, but really, I'm pregnant."

You don't know what you want to do. This has thrown you for a twist and you're confused, so very confused and uncertain and you don't know what's going to happen.

But your husband simply says, tentatively, "I think this calls for a celebration." And he grins at you hesitantly, his blue eyes looking at you in request, telling you he's okay with it.

And then you know that as long as he's here, you'll be alright.

.oOo.

Baby boy Hugo is born in the early hours of a day in the first week of May, and when the Healer places him in your arms for the first time, you're thrown. You remember how Rose looked when you were here all those years ago, her skin red and raw and pink, but relaxing almost immediately from her fitful sleep when she was transferred to your arms. It's as if, somehow, she knew she was safe now and in the embrace of her mother. And the feeling of pure affection, love and protectiveness that welled up in you overflew into tears of joy, your husband standing right there with you, stroking back your hair from your eyes, unmistakable awe on his face as he looked down at his firstborn.

Now, what seems like a world later, you're back again but only this time it's a boy, swaddled typically in fluffy blue towels as he shifts and gurgles in his sleep. Your husband is still there right beside you. And unbelievably, he still has that expression of wonder on his face. And you don't question it, because this time you feel the same.

He's ours, you think. He's ours. I didn't think it possible after Rose, but he's ours. And I love him just as much. But there's a nagging in your chest, a feeling that tells you that Rose will be upset. You can't explain it and you don't think you want to, but you can feel it and it's not going away.

Hugo shifts some more in your arms and suddenly he's blinking awake, calm and quiet and staring at your tearstained face. Such a small baby; but he places his miniscule palm against your collarbone, and then you watch, transfixed, as a single white rose drops from under it as he pulls away, still blinking at you.

Your shuddering gasp is drowned out from an equally high one from Ron as you don't even dare to touch the flower.

It won't be easy, you know. It still aches and hurts and gods, you miss her _so _much that some days you can't think straight.

But as you gingerly pick up the rose from where it's landed on Hugo's belly, stark white and pure against those pale blue towels, balancing him in one hand, you also know that wherever she is, Rose has forgiven you. And with a little help from the two people with you in the room, you'll make it through.

_fin._


End file.
